


Whisper my name

by Whit Merule (whit_merule)



Category: Cats - Andrew Lloyd Webber
Genre: Alternate Universe - Theatre, Autism Spectrum, Ex Sex, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sign Language, anthro cats, selective mutism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:33:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27078871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whit_merule/pseuds/Whit%20Merule
Summary: In which the Rum Tum Tugger accidentally attends the pantomime, and sees there onstage somebody he lost over eight years ago.
Relationships: Mr. Mistoffelees/Rum Tum Tugger (Cats)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 54





	Whisper my name

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RainbowRat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainbowRat/gifts).



> uppastthejelliclemoon and rainbowrat are definitely the godmothers of this fic, for working out the first ideas with me in one case, and for swapping with me headcanons about neurodivergent Tugger and Mistoffelees in the other.
> 
>  **Warning** : These are anthro cats and there are some anatomical differences when it comes to sex. If this might squick you, see end note for specifics.
> 
> There are two 'extras' to this fic, which are located on tumblr since both are image-based. One is the post that spawned this fic in the first place, in which I giffed the designs of a few different versions of Dick Whittington's cat in pantomimes - some of the descriptions of Mistoffelees' former costumes are based on those designs. The other is a transcript of the text conversation between Mungojerrie and Tugger that Mistoffelees reads near the end of the fic. They're linked at the relevant places in the fic, or again in the end notes if you don't want to interrupt the flow of reading.

There was a cat outside the theatre.

Not a Cat – there were plenty of those, of course, milling around in their evening dress, shouting at their kits not to run into the traffic, fumbling with purses and pockets and gloves. But as the Rum Tum Tugger and Jellylorum made their way along the street, he had to stop and let her go on ahead. Because there was a cat sitting on a wall, and it was watching him. Nothing unusual about that: it was simply an ordinary grey and white cat, a Mute, sitting there and blinking at him with green, dumb eyes.

There was no reason for it to catch the Rum Tum Tugger’s attention, and no reason for him to stop.

He stopped anyway, and reached out a paw.

It sniffed delicately at him, then it butted his paw with its head and allowed him to stroke its ears. It purred for a minute, but only a minute. Soon it turned away, and hopped down off the wall, and wandered away waving its tail, in pursuit of its own strange and simple goals.

The Rum Tum Tugger stared after it for a minute, and wondered who it had been in its last life, and what it had done to be sent back as a beast.

Then he shook himself and hurried after Jellylorum, who was looking back impatiently for her escort.

***

Sometimes it’s easier to see people when they aren’t looking right at you.

The Rum Tum Tugger lounged back in his chair. His _very expensive_ gold-patterned boots and gloves were discarded beside him, and his hind legs were hooked up over the edge of the theatre box, toe pads kneading lazily at the air.

It was a shame, really, that Gus had access to one of the _exclusive_ boxes. It wasn’t such a good view of the performance—not that the Rum Tum Tugger cared, since it was _only_ a _pantomime_ , and what was a pantomime after all?—and it had the added ‘luxury’ of being elevated above the stalls, to remove you from the scents and the sounds of the audience. What was the _point_ of coming to the theatre if you weren’t here to stare at other Cats, and make them stare at you?

The Rum Tum Tugger watched the stage through half-lidded eyes, lazily curious. Gus swore by pantomime as a fine and venerated tradition, which the Rum Tum Tugger was almost certain meant ‘melodrama and fart jokes for the kiddies but we’ve been doing it for a long time so we’re calling it art’. If nothing else, he could nap and look for any pretty things to hook up with during the second act. Jellylorum only wanted him here as an escort, after all, and she was busy with her old uncle now. She’d cluck her tongue and glare, but she’d get over it, so long as he was back before the final curtain.

It was about fifteen minutes in when the Rum Tum Tugger’s ears began to prick up, and he found he was actually paying attention: to one particular performer, a slender tuxedo Cat, crouching behind the Lead Boy. Unlike the others onstage he wore no clothes or ribbons or jewellery; but he was wearing a mask that covered his whole face, mimicking the vacant, expressionless features of an animal.

He was playing a Mute. The Rum Tum Tugger knew enough about the traditions of the stage to recognise that. Shakespeare plays had Mutes as jesters to lords and kings. Comically deformed Mutes haunted the woods around Camelot in schoolboy tales to point deceitful directions to errant knights. On the pantomime stage they were comic or villainous sidekicks. Just occasionally they had the innocent wisdom of the divine, but it came to the same thing, in the end. They weren’t people.

The Mute danced. He shone sleek and black under the stage lights, and… was that his real fur? Surely it wasn’t a costume. It gleamed and curved too closely with the lithe twist of his flanks, with every ripple of muscle.

It couldn’t be: there were lights in there and highlights that no stage effects could have made on real fur. It must be a tight bodysuit—and yet, and yet, there was a warmth to it that felt like fur, and seemed like no fabric the Rum Tum Tugger had ever seen

“Gus, who’s that?”

“That’s Dick Whittington’s Mute,” said Gus, almost impatient. “Surely you know the story, boy? He helps him along the way and defeats the King of the Rats, and solves all Dick’s problems with his wit and his claws until the Boy becomes Lord Mayor of London.”

… Well. The Rum Tum Tugger could admit to himself that he was partial to a tuxedo coat. His head always turned in the street when he saw that particular pattern—even if he wasn’t really looking for _him_ anymore, not really hoping. He’d spent so long adoring the crispness of white against black, the elegance they gave to the movements of waist and thigh and neck, that he’d probably permanently re-wired his brain. Admiration was only natural… and this Cat, the lines of his body and the elegance of his movement, the supple and understated strength in every leap and turn…

He really was so _very_ like Mistoffelees. 

The Rum Tum Tugger crept forward, lounging on the edge of the box and draping his arms over the edge to watch.

“No, really, who is it?” he purred. “Who’s the actor?”

“Really, boy,” grumbled Gus, “where have you been? That’s Quaxo. He’s quite the little star of the pantomime circuit these last two or three years.”

“I’ve been not attending the pantomime,” said the Rum Tum Tugger distractedly. “Like any normal person. And _apparently_ , I’ve been missing out.”

“Don’t start drooling on the carpet,” said Jellylorum tartly.

The Rum Tum Tugger flicked his tail disdainfully, but gave no other reply. He was too focussed on the Mute onstage.

There were about a dozen other performers there now, dressed in bright primary colours: billowing capes and sashes for the toms, skirts and armbands and headscarves for the queens. They danced in a regular and symmetrical formation, turning and posing and bowing to each other. And between and around them danced the Mute: diving through their legs, somersaulting over bent backs, cartwheeling through their lines and weaving between their bodies. Against their bold matte colours and structured dancing he moved like a glimpse of night: eerie and gleaming, catching the stage lights in his fur and throwing it back at strange and unpredictable angles as he spun.

And inevitably the memory crept back into the Rum Tum Tugger’s head:

_You sneaky little laser pointer._

Laughing eyes above a disdainful mouth.

The Rum Tum Tugger didn’t move, but every muscle in him crept into tension, yearning toward that bright point of life on the stage. Wanting—imagining—remembering—pouncing, and missing. Missing again as _he_ pirouetted by. Leaping on _him_ and pinning him to the ground and tumbling over with him in his arms and laughing, giggling, snickering, nipping at chins and throats and necks, only to be thwarted when _he_ vanished with a burst of sparks and reappeared on the other side of the garden, haughty and teasing.

Sitting up and growling at him, combing at his whiskers in offended pride. Gathering the kittens together and setting them on him, telling them to chase him and bring him down ( _my laser pointer_ ) as he leaped away and up into trees and over climbing frames, until Mistoffelees—

Under the autumn sun, in the gardens of the common at the heart of the colony. At the heart of the colony.

The Rum Tum Tugger shook out his mane, then his whole body, a sudden judder of rejection. He was over that. He’d been over that for years. There was no need for it now.

This was something else. This was new, and this was _fun_.

He watched, tail twitching, planning. If he went to the stage door afterward—or better, if he charmed his way backstage (and he could charm himself anywhere, he was _the Rum Tum Tugger_ )—if he… and then, and _then_ …

With four backflips, the Mute crossed the entire diagonal length of the stage and landed in the nearest corner, grinning out at the audience under his mask, claws spread and back arched. And then, for the first time, he spoke.

The Rum Tum Tugger’s brain short-circuited.

He didn’t know exactly what was being said. Something about London—something about streets being “paved with gold” (and when he heard that tone, that sarcasm, he saw the head-waggle in his mind before he saw it with his eyes)—something about ridiculous disguises and “well, _that’s_ not going to work,” and he saw the Mute and the Lead Boy tease each other, with innocent idiocy from the Boy and drawling sarcasm from the Mute. Every single line _felt_ like improvisation, like the Mute shouldn’t _actually_ be speaking—like a mistake that they’d laugh off in a moment, but they looked at the audience at the same time, like the audience was in on the joke, like they were conspiring to hide it from the producers.

And the Rum Tum Tugger’s blood raced backward in his veins. Because that voice, that tone, that cock of the head, that flick of the fingers and pause for a breath. He had spent years studying them and knowing them and loving them and (on bad days) explaining them to everybody else. That _was_ Mistoffelees.

And he was speaking.

Not to one or two trusted people. Not in a comfortable, familiar environment in the midst of a beloved family. He was speaking onstage in front of an audience of hundreds, and with every inflection and nuance of his voice, he owned them. He reigned.

Slowly, quietly, over the next quarter hour or so, the wood of the panelling under the Rum Tum Tugger’s claws was reduced to sawdust, and dribbled over the ruffs and ears and coats of the Cats in the stalls below him. He didn’t even notice.

When the house lights came up for interval, Jellylorum leaned forward.

“You know, dear, I think I’ve worked out who that is. I think he’s Victoria’s cousin. You remember—the once with the magic. The one who ran away and joined Ma—”

“Yes,” said the Rum Tum Tugger.

“I always thought you and he were rather…”

“ _Yes_.”

“How long ago was that? Five years? Six?”

“Eight,” said the Rum Tum Tugger brightly, and rolled up to all fours. “And a half. Hey Gus, how long is interval?”

“Half an hour for pantomimes,” huffed Gus, his paws beginning to shake. “All these kittens. There’s always a line for the litter boxes. And what do you mean, Victoria’s cousin? I don’t remember Victoria having a cousin.”

“He was only part of the colony for a couple of years, dear.” Jellylorum patted her grandfather’s paw reprovingly, holding it still. “You probably didn’t see him much.”

“I would have remembered an _actor_ ,” said Gus fretfully.

“It’s alright,” said Jellylorum comfortingly, “Nobody expects you to remember.”

Gus subsided into docility; and the Rum Tum Tugger, at the door of the box, turned and looked back. The old actor was slumped in his chair, head forward and resigned.

“He wasn’t an actor,” said the Rum Tum Tugger, “not then. He was a dancer, Gus. Didn’t even come from a theatre background. Just sort of picked it up along the way. Great that he landed a role like this, isn’t it?”

Gus straightened up at once and his whiskers quivered indignantly. Jellylorum shot the Rum Tum Tugger a furious look over his head, and the Rum Tum Tugger blew her a kiss, and left her to listen to another rendition of Gus’ passionate views on the Proper and Structured Training of Theatre Kittens.

The Rum Tum Tugger bounded barefooted along the corridor, vaulted over the balcony, bounced off the side of the sweeping (and _crowded_ ) central staircase, and landed in the middle of the foyer, to the sound of an irritated yowl from an usher. He winked and twirled her around as he passed, leaving her flustered, and pelted out of the theatre and down the street.

“Flowers,” he demanded of a passing tabby. “Where can I get flowers?”

The tabby rolled her eyes and hissed, because sometimes even the Rum Tum Tugger’s appeal was not universal, and he zoomed past her and pounced on a flower seller, packing up for the night outside another theatre.

“Roses! I need all the red roses! The biggest bunch you’ve ever seen, quick!”

The ragged old grey eyed him over, unimpressed. “Only pansies left this time of night, mate.”

“ _All_ your pansies,” demanded the Rum Tum Tugger; and within twenty minutes he was back in Gus’ box, clutching a wreath woven, rather hastily, from pansies.

“Are those for me?” demanded Gus querulously, when he had time to notice that the Rum Tum Tugger was back (if he’d ever seen that he was gone). “But it isn’t curtain yet, boy.”

“… Right, yes.” The Rum Tum Tugger plucked half a dozen pansies from the bunch, plaited them together as the house lights began to dim, and tucked them into the fraying sash that fastened the old cat’s cloak. “Those ones are for you. These are for Jellylorum.” Another six, handed with a bow and a flourish—ignoring the question in her eyes—and he slouched down, with his diminished and wilting wreath, to watch the second act.

The wreath lasted no better than the edge of the balcony had done.

His laser pointer was amazing and confident and so very _beautiful_.

His laser pointer backflipped across the stage, made a rude gesture to the Emperor of Morocco where none of the actors (but all of the audience) could see, snickered, and zoomed offstage.

His laser pointer just snarked the hell out of everybody, like ‘non-verbal’ had never been a thing.

His laser pointer defeated a hoard of rats in a non-contact fight sequence that was half ballet and half acrobatic tumbling and cartwheels. The balletics of Skimbleshanks and Victoria, the acrobatics of Etcetera and Tumblebrutus, all turned to something that belonged to Mistoffelees alone, but there was something else there—somebody else, someone else’s influence, and the Rum Tum Tugger was almost sure he knew who _that Cat_ was. For a moment, he thought he saw red fur flickering flame-like along the lithe tumbling figure—but no. That was done. That was over.

His laser pointer was alive. Happy, healthy, alive, and—and successful, acknowledged and beloved and recognised in something that was all his own and where he didn’t have to try to pretend to be what everybody else was.

His laser pointer was— _not_ his, not anymore, they’d broken up and that was _fine_ , the Rum Tum Tugger respected that, and he was definitely not worthy of this marvel.

The Rum Tum Tugger fell in love all over again. And he definitely _didn’t_ cry, thank you very much.

He watched the curtain calls with stars in his eyes. Then he looked down at the mess of petals in his lap, and swore very loudly.

He whipped around. “Jellylorum. Jelly, honey, sweetest, darling, will you be _very_ angry if I ditch you to get home on your own?”

Jellylorum gave him a resigned look. “Must you?”

“ _Obviously_.” He clutched the remains of the pansies and leaped for the door, pirouetting at the last moment as a thought struck him. “And—look. Maybe don’t tell Munkustrap? Not just yet.” He held up his hands at the reproachful face. “I know, I know, I promise I’ll tell him, but… let me find out how things are first. Okay?”

“My dear.” Jellylorum rose and came over to him, whispering so that Gus wouldn’t hear. “He went with _Macavity_. He was with him for months. And please put your shoes and gloves back on.”

“Nobody knew how bad Macavity was then! Not until way later. And Mistoffelees is Mistoffelees, he wouldn’t have—he doesn’t hurt people. If anybody was getting hurt in that scenario it would have been… and anyway, he got out, obviously. So. Come on, beautiful.” He smiled his most charming smile, and chucked her under the chin. “Trust me a little.”

“Don’t you pull that on me, young tom.” She couldn’t help smiling a little, though, even as she scolded. “You’ve got twenty-four hours, then I’m telling Munkustrap. And I expect to hear from you in two, to know you’re alright.”

He kissed her cheek. “You’re the best. Later!”

And he was off again—out of the theatre, down the street, and leaping over a garden wall to where he’d seen the promising dark shiny leaves of a camellia before. No flower-sellers out on the street now: it had to be theft. Then he rushed back to hang around casually by the stage door, hoping against hope that Mistoffelees wasn’t one of those people who just leave right away.

He wasn’t. He was one of those people who potter.

When he finally emerged, he was wearing his street clothes. Cloak buttoned down over his chest, and gloves, and a skirted vest that fell in sharp pleats down almost to his knees. No makeup, and no mask; and yet, when the Rum Tum Tugger uncurled from his stiffened ball by the foot of the stairs, he thought for a moment that he was still looking at the sardonic frozen face of the Mute.

“I was in the audience,” he said, and looked down at the flowers in his hand. After a silent moment, he held them up. Then he looked.

The Mute was staring at him. Then its gaze dropped to the flowers.

“Camellias,” it said flatly. Then, with a helpless sort of fierceness, “ _Camellias_?”

“I got you violets too,” the Rum Tum Tugger confessed accidentally, “but I squashed them.”

He offered the remains of the wreath, as a token of good faith.

“Those are pansies,” said the other Cat.

“Right,” said the Rum Tum Tugger. “I knew that. Why, what’s wrong with camellias?”

“ _Rum Tum Tugger_ ,” said Mistoffelees, and the Rum Tum Tugger froze. Then Quaxo the Mute buttoned his cloak firmly around his shoulders, and said, “Please, go away.”

The Rum Tum Tugger shot to his feet.

“Okay, so I got them from somebody’s garden, so they’re not super fancy, but _in my defence_ there wasn’t anywhere to buy them at this time of night, and—”

“Do you really not know what camellias mean? Or pansies, for that matter?”

The Rum Tum Tugger gaped— _mutely_ , curse him.

“Of course you don’t. I suppose they were just big and showy and right there in front of you.” The Mute smirked, and buffed his claws on the edge of his cloak.

“ _Everlasting_ , I missed your voice.” It slipped out before he could stop it, so the Rum Tum Tugger just went with it. What was a bit of embarrassment, after all?

“I hear they broadcast this on the radio twice in the Christmas season,” said the Mute, unmoved.

“Really?” the Rum Tum Tugger exclaimed, horrified. “Why? The voices aren’t the point!”

“Try telling them that!” Quaxo huffed. “I just work here.” He looked down, busier than he needed to be with fastening the buttons on the wrists of his gloves, hiding—was it the flicker of a smile?

The Rum Tum Tugger’s paw shot out, and seized his. Quaxo froze, and stared at him with the eyes of a petrified child.

“Shit,” said the Rum Tum Tugger, and let go. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I forgot.”

They stared at each other for a minute, and for a minute there was no Quaxo there at all: it was just the two of them, the Rum Tum Tugger and Mistoffelees, matching their breathing to the rise and fall of each other’s chest. Like they always used to do, when one or the other needed to be brought back to himself.

But it wasn’t only that: it was that old familiar push-pull thrill of longing, the fun of denying yourself what you wanted for just another minute, just a minute more. Wishing on the one hand to be able to just reach out and touch him, but thrilling in the game of trying to goad him into wanting to touch _you_.

There were fine creases around his eyes and mouth now: strain, and squinting, and laughter. His shoulders were stronger and broader, though he still looked at lithe and slender as ever from a distance; and he had grown into his face. Now it reflected the years and the growing and the becoming, and the _who am I_.

Now he wasn’t just pretty. Now, he was so handsome he took the Rum Tum Tugger’s breath away—and it was a beauty that nobody could share, because it was one he had built in himself.

A little knot of Cats prowled down the lane on all fours, yowling and laughing, knocking shoulders and staggering against each other’s flanks in the time-honoured way of drunkenness everywhere, keeping upright by a general sort of consensus instead of by any one Cat’s steadiness on his paws.

The Rum Tum Tugger shook out his mane, remembering himself. Mistoffelees pawed at his own cloak and glared at the party, and the Rum Tum Tugger stepped automatically between him and them. Then he looked down at the flowers.

“Yeah, sorry,” he repeated sheepishly. “I thought pink camellias were… and red was…” But now that Mistoffelees was here in front of him, looking at him with the eyes of a different life, even saying it out loud seemed uncomfortable. Inappropriate, and poorly timed, and perhaps now there were other unreadable words behind that well-known face.

“Yes,” said Quaxo, speaking in a hiss to hide his voice from the passers-by—“yes. Passion and love and desire and all those things flowers almost always symbolise.” His mouth was exquisitely sarcastic, but there was fire in his eyes. “It isn’t just about what the flower books say. There are other associations as well, you know. Especially when it comes to the stage. The Lady of the Camellias? She who will bloom only for a day? All frills and display then rot?”

“I,” said the Rum Tum Tugger, and tried to look suave instead of horrified, “… did not know that. Is that a pantomime too?”

“Opera.” Quaxo rolled his eyes. “And a common trope. So… you didn’t actually mean to call me a fallen woman?” The _you idiot_ might have been unspoken, or he might have just imagined it. But maybe, maybe…

“If it helps,” said the Rum Tum Tugger, smugly, fishing out from his cloak the two camellias he’d held back because they didn’t match, “I got these as well. White is purity, right?”

Quaxo suddenly spun away from him in a tight little circle, landing in a crouch—and he pawed at his ears, in Mistoffelees’ old gesture of embarrassment. “Everlasting Cat,” he growled, “can we stop reflecting on my lack of _purity_?”

“You brought it up,” argued the Rum Tum Tugger. “I literally _never_ mentioned your sex life. That was all you.”

“Why not?” drawled Quaxo, drawing himself up again—and now he really was the Mute, ironical and poised, with the cloak falling just so from one arm and the other.

“Uh.” The Rum Tum Tugger closed one eye and squinted at him, trying to find the trick in the question. “Because I can get sex any time I like? I don’t want to hear about sex, I want to hear about _you_. Why, is that all you’ve been doing with your life? ‘Cos I think the rest of the story would be far more interesting.”

Quaxo hissed impatiently. Then claws were digging into the Rum Tum Tugger’s arm, and his back collided with a brick wall.

“You’re _insufferable_ ,” Quaxo said, and kissed him like a punch.

The Rum Tum Tugger’s brain hit a jarring chord of confusion and disbelief, then ran a disorderly glissando up the scale of increasing lust and joy to a quick little arpeggio on _oh right, I should kiss back_.

Not quick enough. He had barely managed to make a delighted noise against Quaxo’s mouth and tilt his head for better access before it was gone. The paw dragging his head down disappeared, with a sting that said some of his mane had caught in the claws, and he was being pushed inside the theatre.

“Fine. I’m always horny after a show. You’re here, let’s get this over with. One night only.”

“What, a Quaxo exclusive?” shot back the Rum Tum Tugger, and earned himself a cuff around the ear as he was hustled back toward the dressing room. Quaxo’s blow and words were meant to hurt, or maybe they weren’t, and he didn’t care: he could take whatever Mistoffelees threw at him, always could.

“Would that shut you up?”

“Depends what you put in my mouth.”

“ _Why_ are you here?”

“Jellylorum needed a lift to the theatre! She’s picking Gus up and going back to his place for the night because he’s got some operation on his hip in a couple of days and she has to—”

Quaxo shoved him backwards through a door. The Rum Tum Tugger spun and landed in a crouch, looking up at him, half snarling and half laughing and ready for anything—but he found Quaxo had frozen on the spot in dismay.

“I knew I shouldn’t have agreed to this run,” he muttered, and licked one paw to pass it quickly over his face, forgetting he was wearing gloves. “Not this town. It’s too close to—Do they all know?”

The Rum Tum Tugger stared up at him. “Know? Not yet. Jellylorum recognised you, but I said not to tell Munkustrap until I’d talked to you, and—”

“ _Munkustrap_!” Quaxo spun around on the spot, bristling and frustrated. Then his eyes snapped to the Rum Tum Tugger, and went narrow. “Do you realise how humiliating this is? Having you here?”

The Rum Tum Tugger, who had been creeping toward him on all fours, went still and confused, trying to work out the whys and wherefores of that one—of what Mistoffelees could possibly find to be ashamed of in his success. He shifted back to rise to his hindfeet, and as he did so, his perspective of the room changed.

“You have,” said he, and then, turning around and around, “Oh. Oh, this is perfect!”

Quaxo stopped and looked around the room as if he were seeing it for the first time. He looked at the display cabinets along one wall, and the objects on the makeup table, and the frame on the walls, and the cluttered shelf running around the whole room just above the height of the door. Then he dropped the flowers, turned on the Rum Tum Tugger and pointed to the door.

“Out,” he said flatly.

“… oh, no.” The Rum Tum Tugger slipped nimbly past him, feeling the shit-eating grin begin to split his face. The excitement was coursing through him and he knew he was going to babble ridiculously, he _knew_ he was going to sound like an idiot, and he knew that might be the best thing he could do to keep Mistoffelees from throwing him out.

“Quaxo,” he said, “Mistoffelees. You have _memorabilia_.”

“Get out.”

“Memorabilia of _yourself_.”

“Rum Tum Tugger. This is my workspace.”

The Rum Tum Tugger turned one ear sideways, towards the broad low divan on one side of the room. “You often invite people back to your workspace for a quick fuck?”

Quaxo stared at him with narrowed eyes, chest rising and falling as he unbuttoned that tiresome cloak.

“Where did you get this plush… frog? crocodile?”

“We do photoshoots in here. You’re expected to—give that!—I _have_ to have all these things.”

The Rum Tum Tugger let him snatch the framed photograph (a sulky-looking Quaxo in a flea-bitten brown Mute costume, being hugged by two young queens) and grabbed another from a shelf.

“Shit, Buttons, what are you doing in this one?”

“Don’t call me that,” he snapped, and there was that catch in his throat that meant he was starting to have difficulty putting sentences together, but there was real animation in his eyes. “People get—offended if you forget—the run they were in or don’t keep the thing they gave you, it’s unprofessional to—”

“Anything you say, darling. Hey, look, this one’s head unscrews. You can store sweets in your own belly. Is that some Dorian Gray displacement thing for dancers who have to stick to a diet, or just really hilarious design?”

“If you break that chair you’re buying me a new—it’s the only one that’s the right height for the mirrors—”

“It isn’t even your chair. You sign photos of yourself and stick them up in your _own room_?”

“Stop looking at all the—the stage things!”

The Rum Tum Tugger pirouetted in the middle of the room, arms out, gesturing to all the framed photos and memorabilia and gifts on the high shelf that ran around the walls. “But _Quaxo_ ,” he crooned, “this whole room is a shrine to you.”

Quaxo sprang. The Rum Tum Tugger caught him full in his arms, and was knocked backward onto the divan.

… It had always surprised him, how heavy Mistoffelees was. There was a lot of muscle in that tiny body.

There was also a weight across the Rum Tum Tugger’s thighs and a paw planted firmly in the middle of his chest, and a snarling nose right in front of him. So he kissed the nose.

“I will _blindfold_ you, I swear to the moon,” hissed Quaxo, an inch from his mouth, eyes burning blue. But his knees had clamped down firmly around the Rum Tum Tugger’s hips, automatic and fierce, so he knew that _these_ were boundaries he could push. For now.

“Promises, promises,” he purred, and smirked his sexiest smirk.

“Stop grimacing, you look like a baboon.”

Mistoffelees was touching him. Here, on this sort-of-bed, breath coursing between their bodies, hot and alive. He was touching Mistoffelees, and Mistoffelees _wanted_ it.

“You look like an angel,” he admitted joyfully, “ _sugar_.”

Quaxo’s paw flexed against his chest. Claws slipped out through the slits at the tips of his gloves, pressing gently through the fur to catch at the Rum Tum Tugger’s skin.

Quaxo swallowed twice, and lowered his head. His teeth scraped over the corner of the Rum Tum Tugger’s jaw; and breath seeped through the fur, warm and damp and erratic.

The Rum Tum Tugger dug his claws into the upholstery and flung his head back, circling his hips restlessly between Quaxo and the divan.

Quaxo’s voice drawled, “Don’t call me _that_ either.”

The Rum Tum Tugger tried to tilt his head sideways, though it was difficult: his ruff was too wide, and there were cushions under his head, and a blanket rumpled up behind his shoulders that smelled of Mistoffelees.

“Honey?” he suggested breathlessly. “Peppermint? Spice-and-all-that’s-nice?”

Quaxo lifted his head, and squinted at him incredulously.

“Ooh!” The Rum Tum Tugger patted his nose gently with one paw. “Star anise? Ginger?”

 _Ginger_? Quaxo mouthed back at him, and rolled his eyes. He caught up the Rum Tum Tugger’s paw and turned it over between his, tracing the tawny speckling on the paw and wrist, cocking a sarcastic eyebrow.

And, _yes_. Even when he wasn’t exactly making words, the Rum Tum Tugger was almost sure he knew _just_ what he meant. Even this new, strange, marvellous Mistoffelees; even now.

“Nah, doesn’t count,” he said, and snuck his other paw down to tickle shamelessly at Quaxo’s knee. “It’s not ginger unless there’s red. And red would entirely ruin my look. Anyway, it’s not about the fur colour,” he added, catching his tongue between his lips and running an appreciative look up and down the black and white chest, above the line of his vest. “It’s about the _feel_. You are totally ginger.”

Quaxo’s whiskers flared, and he chittered sarcastically.

“And honey,” added the Rum Tum Tugger, thrilled.

Quaxo rolled his eyes so hard he rolled straight off the divan and flopped down to the floor.

“Hey,” said the Rum Tum Tugger to the ceiling. “I thought you were ravishing me and throwing me out. You can’t do that from down there.”

There was no reply. The Rum Tum Tugger propped himself up on his elbow and looked down at him.

One gloved paw covering Quaxo’s face in dramatic, wordless exasperation. The other paw was kneading restlessly at the fluff below his collar bone, the way it did when there was something he wanted powerfully to touch, but didn’t dare. Against the touch his chest rose and fell, and there was a faint flush under the fine white fur. His vest was low cut, twisted askew, and the Rum Tum Tugger could see the first two nipples on his left side: little pink nubs, almost hidden.

The Rum Tum Tugger dragged his tongue over his lower lip, remembering. The second and third: those were particularly sensitive. The fourth… down there, just where the waistcoat hid it from view… that one would usually just make him giggle.

Quaxo’s whiskers twitched, and his nose and mouth screwed up—even with his eyes covered, he must be able to feel the Rum Tum Tugger’s gaze. The hand on his chest stilled.

“As your sexy after-show one-night-stand,” the Rum Tum Tugger contributed, eyes trailing downwards, “I feel it’s my duty to tell you that your thighs are even more amazing than before. They’re a little bit terrifying actually.”

Quaxo shivered a little. Then: “How are you still so skinny, under all that fluff?” he grumbled. Without uncovering his eyes, he lifted the other paw, reaching it up: halfway toward the Rum Tum Tugger, or perhaps a little more.

He reached down, and closed the gap, brushing his paw down the back of Quaxo’s.

“I’m not skinny,” he said, hoping he didn’t sound as agitated as he felt. “I am _lithe_.”

The paw didn’t flinch away. So he took it, and he drew the glove off, and dropped it beside the bed.

And suddenly, abruptly, the Rum Tum Tugger _ached_. It was too much: too much wanting, too much longing, not for some absent remembered Mistoffelees anymore but for this contrary and yearning creature of fur and blood, right here in front of him.

He turned the paw over, and it lay there, half curled and tense, claws almost sheathed.

It twitched a little, when he kissed the pad of the palm. He smiled against it, and gently unbent each finger, and kissed the pad on the tip: four of them black, and the fifth pink, under a little tuft of white fur.

He thought he felt a faint sigh from Mistoffelees, from Quaxo who had said _one night only_ as if this was a performance; and the Rum Tum Tugger bounced off the divan, away from sentimentality and honest pain.

He snatched up a tube of fur paint with a triumphant little yelp, and spun to look back at him, half expecting to be tackled again. But there Quaxo was, sitting up now and sprawling against the side of the bed, supercilious and scowling and half laughing with something like relief.

“Get back here,” said Quaxo, half giggling, crooking his fingers. “What did I bring you here for? Come back and fuck me.”

“Make me,” said the Rum Tum Tugger, feeling the joy blossom across his face.

Quaxo—no, Mistoffelees, definitely Mistoffelees—crossed his arms and arched an eyebrow.

“How do you use this anyway?” the Rum Tum Tugger asked. “Do you squish it on with your fingers? How do you stop it getting caught between your pads? Do you dilute it and comb it through or something? But you weren’t wearing any tonight, were you?”

Mistoffelees gave him an incredulous look, and ran a thumb around the arch of his eyebrow and the curve of his lashes, then down from nose to mouth and out around the lines of his cheekbones: the lines and accents that would need to be highlighted for stage lighting.

The Rum Tum Tugger made a questioning gesture to his throat and then made a vanishing sign with his fingers: _Voice gone_?

Mistoffelees shrugged.

“But you were wearing a mask?” the Rum Tum Tugger pointed out; and Mistoffelees repeated the shrug. _Still need the makeup_ , he signed. _The eyes show through. Anyway, it makes me feel like I’m getting in character. And some nights I take the mask off for asides to the audience_.

 _You change the script that much?_ asked the Rum Tum Tugger curiously, putting the paint down to sign. _I mean it all looks like it’s pretending to be improv but it’s so slick_. _Every beat’s right there. You look so professional. You’re making it up?_

Mistoffelees looked slightly embarrassed, but more curious. _Some bits. Some nights. Depends who I’m playing with. Some actors you can improv with easier than others, once you know them. If they trust you, and they think the same things are funny. And._ He smirked faintly. _If you know the big shots aren’t watching that night._

His eyes glinted, a familiar old sparkle that had the Rum Tum Tugger’s mouth curling in response, a slideshow flickering through his mind of the indignant faces of Mungojerrie and Rumpelteazer, of George and Tumblebrutus and even occasionally of Pouncival, when they were left taking the blame for the consequences of situations that wouldn’t have been _nearly_ so calamitous without Mistoffelees.

 _Still practising the innocent eyes in front of the boss?_ the Rum Tum Tugger signed. “Jennyanydots never did really catch on, you know.”

 _None of you bothered to tip her off_ , Mistoffelees pointed out, then nibbled at his fingers.

The Rum Tum Tugger stared at him, distracted.

Mistoffelees’ tongue curled casually around the end of one pink pad. Then he nibbled at the claw.

( _Just one night._ )

The Rum Tum Tugger whined faintly in his throat. Then he blew Mistoffelees a kiss, and picked up a little carved walrus.

“Hey look,” he said. “You keep a tiny model of Dad on your table! He’ll be so pleased.”

Mistoffelees threw a glove at his head.

The Rum Tum Tugger ducked, grinning, and threw it back. Quaxo’s superciliousness was fading, and Mistoffelees was becoming more giggly, and more animated, and less verbal. That meant something, but the Rum Tum Tugger wasn’t sure what it meant, or what he wanted it to mean.

He found a paper fan, and flicked it open. Painted on it were some stylised designs of characters from some show he didn’t know, including one which was probably meant to be Quaxo’s.

Mistoffelees thumped a foot on the ground, to make the Rum Tum Tugger look at him.

 _Don’t break it_ , he signed, with a glare and half a grin.

“Hey,” protested the Rum Tum Tugger, “I would never do that.”

This time the grin was immediate, a smug tilt of the head.

“… except that sometimes I do that,” the Rum Tum Tugger remembered.

Mistoffelees made a sign which meant nothing much to anybody except them: it was halfway between Tugger’s name, and the word _boring_. _Just like always_ , he added.

“You sentimental sap,” the Rum Tum Tugger pouted.

Mistoffelees’ chest was rising and falling. It was very distracting. Especially when— _especially when_ he began to unbutton the vest, with only half an eye on the Rum Tum Tugger, as if it were nothing.

… it occurred to the Rum Tum Tugger that he had already provoked Mistoffelees twice into pouncing on him. He could probably do it again.

The Rum Tum Tugger was sexy, but he had never been suave. He pushed his tongue out of his mouth, sideway, nibbling on it and grinning at Mistoffelees, and put down the walrus.

“Oh, what’s this?” he asked brightly, swinging his hips and twitching his tail enticingly as he turned his back on Mistoffelees. “I like this! Does it fly?”

It was an orange origami llama, or possibly a camel, with somebody’s autograph on it. The Rum Tum Tugger pounced on it and turned back to Mistoffelees, holding it up in front of his face and making a sexy duck pout at it. “Does it have a name? I bet I could name it. Let’s call it Ernie.”

With the vest still half buttoned Mistoffelees rolled up into a crouch, all mussed up and narrow-eyed. He opened his mouth and closed it again, frustrated; but the look said _I know what you’re trying to do_ louder than any words.

The Rum Tum Tugger grinned breathlessly at him, and lifted the llama above his head out of Mistoffelees’ reach, and he asked it, “Hey Ernie, if I pull your tail does it make your head bob up and down?”

Mistoffelees tilted his head, very slowly, and as he stared into the Rum Tum Tugger’s face, something in his own expression went soft and almost terrified. His mouth twisted and half opened, trembling on the verge of speech.

The Rum Tum Tugger’s grin faltered, and his heart skipped inside him.

Then Mistoffelees lifted one arm out; and somehow, all of a sudden, everything about his stance looked very different. He wasn’t defensive or amazed now: he was both Quaxo and Mistoffelees, and his tail was sweeping slowly from side to side, and he was looking at the Rum Tum Tugger like prey.

“Oh shit,” said the Rum Tum Tugger accidentally.

For a moment he thought that he might be about to be zapped with magic; but: “Hold still,” Quaxo growled.

He leapt.

The Rum Tum Tugger just had time to brace himself before a pair of legs wrapped around his chest. It was only for an instant: most of the weight was in the hand on his right shoulder, and in a moment Quaxo had flipped himself upside down, pivoted himself on that one hand, and was balancing with a hand on each of the Rum Tum Tugger’s shoulders.

The Rum Tum Tugger turned his head carefully and saw him in the mirror: legs spread wide for balance (and to avoid the ceiling), wobbling, steadying, then going still.

Quaxo tilted his head slowly backward, to meet his gaze in the mirror.

“You’re mad,” said the Rum Tum Tugger with delight. “You’re actually mad.”

Mistoffelees stuck out his tongue. Then, with challenge in his eyes, not breaking the stare in the mirror, he shifted all his weight slowly onto his left hand and raised the right from the Rum Tum Tugger’s left shoulder.

Delicately, he took the origami and put it between his teeth. Then his hand went down to the Rum Tum Tugger’s shoulder again.

“I know we used to practise lifts,” said the Rum Tum Tugger conversationally, while his heart pounded a sweet erratic rhythm, “but the point is, you see, we used to _practise_ them, not just—”

“Catch me,” said Quaxo simply, and caught at the Rum Tum Tugger’s arm as it lifted, spinning himself down and around his body to the floor.

His back and shoulders pressed firmly against the Rum Tum Tugger’s chest, and the Rum Tum Tugger wrapped his arms around his stomach and buried his face in the fur below one ear.

“I _almost_ dropped you,” he purred, breathing in the scent of him.

Quaxo put the llama on the bench, then lifted his arm and draped it backwards over the Rum Tum Tugger’s shoulder, tilting his head backwards and nuzzling open-mouthed against the side of the Rum Tum Tugger’s chin and making him forget how to breathe. “I’d’ve landed fine on my own,” he purred back; then he slipped out of the Rum Tum Tugger’s grasp and slunk over on all fours to a little cupboard by a mini fridge. “But it’s more fun when you don’t.”

The Rum Tum Tugger almost whined at the loss, ready and more than ready to stop playing, to pick him up and tumble onto the bed and say everything with the language of his mouth and body and paws and cock that Mistoffelees wouldn’t let him say with words.

He ran his claws through his mane and bit at one paw, and turned his back on the sight of Quaxo mixing them each a gin and tonic.

“Oh-ho,” he crowed, finding a distraction; and he scrabbled gleefully through the folders on the display cabinet, emerging triumphantly with [a photo album](https://whitmerule.tumblr.com/post/190726295980/whitmerule-whitmerule-whitmerule).

“Timelines!” he purred, triumphant, and turned back to grin Quaxo, who put down the drinks and tried to snatch the album away. “Now, let’s see what the marvellous Mr Quaxo has been getting up to on sta— _Quaxo_ this is hideous.”

Quaxo hopped up to sit on the bench and downed half his drink at once, tail twitching. _Still can’t stay on topic_ , he signed grumpily. _Topic me seducing you_. _Idiot_.

“This is appalling,” the Rum Tum Tugger explained to him kindly. “This is an abomination unto—you actually let them dress you in this shit? I mean that quite literally. You look like actual shit. Whose face do I have to rub in shit to point this out?”

Mistoffelees squeezed his eyes shut and signed, _Only third solo gig. Can’t diva. I’m right here, T-bore. Real me not photo me_.

“This,” declared the Rum Tum Tugger with deep and horrified fervour, abandoning his drink in favour of pacing the room and gesturing widely: “ _this_ is not presentable. That baggy brown suit, and the cute little barn-dance steps… Oh, you’re _sulking_ in this photo, look at you, you’re adorable.”

Mistoffelees put down his drink, not looking at him, and leaned over to grab a pen and paper.

 _I HATE YOU_ , he wrote; and he flopped dramatically down onto his back on the bench, and covered his face with the paper.

The Rum Tum Tugger beamed at him, and turned a few pages.

“Hm, costume redesign. Skin-tight, I approve. The flares are a bit weird. Why are they yellow?” He cocked his head and studied them. “At least they let you do some high kicks. Still not what I call dancing, though, unless they didn’t bother to take photos of the best bits. Oooh, another costume change for Hereford—seriously, with the money they’re spending on redesigns you’d think they could just save that and pay you all a better wage. Flames and cartwheels, very pretty. At least they’re letting you do acrobatics.”

He stopped and contemplated those photos for a minute or two, trailing his claws happily over the lines of Mistoffelees’ body as he somersaulted with vicious delight across the stage.

“Costume’s a bit showy really. All those red and orange tassels hide you. Can’t see the muscles working. I mean, they’d show off the flips and tumbling stuff, but not the real details. Wow. Those eyes. You… really weren’t enjoying your job, huh? Did any of them notice?”

Mistoffelees was silent still; and the Rum Tum Tugger glanced at him under his eyelashes, a bit uncertain, because there must be _something_ he wanted to say, even if it was only _ugh, you’re annoying, I’m ignoring you_.

He was just in time to see Mistoffelees pull the paper back over his face.

“Is it sliding off?” asked the Rum Tum Tugger, solicitously. “Do you need tape?”

The rude gesture was very vehement.

The Rum Tum Tugger giggled at it, and dug some tape out of a drawer, and stuck it to Mistoffelees’ paw pad.

Mistoffelees’ tail twitched, and he picked the tape off with distaste. But he did use it to stick the sign to his forehead.

For some reason, it was that (more than almost anything that had happened so far) that made the Rum Tum Tugger ache and long to make some unforgivable declaration of eternal love. Here they were—and here they’d always been—and they couldn’t really talk, though maybe they could fuck, but they still knew how to cover the wounds with _play_.

So instead he rolled his eyes, and turned the page: on to the next year, and the next redesign of Mistoffelees’ other self.

“Oh! I do like this one. You’re _sexy_ in—hold on. Is that… oh, _Quaxo_ …!”

The Rum Tum Tugger flipped back and forth, staring narrowly at Quaxo’s costume for the Yorkshire season two and a half years ago.

“You’ve got _sass_ ,” he said slowly, because that was certain, “and they’re letting you actually speak… and sweetheart, that face you’re making… and that _mane_ and the little chain attached to your belt and _oh wow a press cutting_.”

Mistoffelees pointed vehemently to the sign on his face while the Rum Tum Tugger read aloud, with absolute and utter glee, “‘… newly discovered talent’—well that’s bullshit, you’ve been performing for how long by this time?—‘exquisite comic timing… camp and sarcastic improvisation… irreverent wit… flam _boyant_ ’.

He twirled a chair and sat down, arms crossed over the back of it, grinning down at the I HATE YOU sign, waiting for Mistoffelees to crack.

The white-tipped tail was flicking back and forth, bristling and fluffing up out of its slicked-down stage look. 

“… Well?” said the Rum Tum Tugger after a moment, getting bored first. “And don’t _tell_ me you didn’t have any say in the design of _that_ costume.”

Quaxo drew in a deep breath and, without removing the paper from his face, he drawled in a voice that was _very obviously_ a parody of the Rum Tum Tugger’s own speech patterns, turned up to Maximum Gay: “Yeeees, I’m an adorable _Mute_. You can tell by my big bushy tail. And if you don’t believe me, I’ve just come from the animal hospital. Bit of a furrrrball problem, _ahem, ahem_. Now you’re probably wondering, why am I hanging around with _Dick_? Well…” The name landed with a thud, and he trailed off suggestively, clearly waiting for the knowing snickers from the adults in the audience. “… He doesn’t look like much but he’s clean and he carries my luggage for me. Oh, I’m really looking forward to going to London for our adventure. I’m going to go to one of those trendy London stores and buy one of those diamante litter trays. And don’t _talk_ to me about buckets of paint.”

“You were me,” purring the Rum Tum Tugger, tilting the chair precariously forward. “The first time you were featured as a fully talking actor— _star of the show_ , honeypie, look at you, using your voice like a weapon, everybody eating out of your hand and thinking you were the wittiest thing ever—and you were playing _me_.”

“‘Call yourself the _Queen_ of Rats? I could… mmm, just gobble you up for breakfast,’” drawled Quaxo, his voice still dripping innuendo; and the Rum Tum Tugger broke down into laughter, tumbling off the chair and collapsing against the divan. “‘He’s a Mute? Shouldn’t he be on all fours?’ ‘Oh, darling, I’ll be the judge of that.’”

“That’s adorable,” said the Rum Tum Tugger. “It’s horrible. But it’s adorable. You’re really allowed to get away with saying that shit in a kiddie show?”

Quaxo made a frustrated sound and flapped one hand impatiently, knocking the paper aside. “Tu—” he began, then he signed. _Did you seriously not recognise the_ … _the **other** costume_?

The Rum Tum Tugger cocked his head. “Other costume? There’s a better one than this?” He grabbed for the album, which he’d let fall, and flicked forward a few pages. Mistoffelees sat up and grabbed it off him, turning back to the costume before, the one in fiery red and orange.

The Rum Tum Tugger blinked at it, then up at Mistoffelees.

Mistoffelees jabbed his finger at it, then rolled his eyes and his whole head at the Rum Tum Tugger’s blank expression.

“It’s _h—_ ,” he said, then signed savagely, _Him_.

The Rum Tum Tugger stared at him instead of the page. There was something almost savage in his eyes; but there was defiance too, and a strange plea behind that.

“… Oh.”

The Rum Tum Tugger looked down at the photos, feeling something cold scrape at the inside of his chest. “Well, you know, I never met Macavity. Good likeness?”

 _Did you design this too?_ he didn’t ask. _Did you choose to look like him?_

Mistoffelees touched his chin. He looked up.

 _It was a tour of the Welsh marches_ , Mistoffelees signed. His eyes were fixed on the Rum Tum Tugger’s, and he looked like he expected to be hit. _You know he did a lot of damage around there. This was two years after his execution. They turned him into a joke. A cartoon villain. Literally, actually—there was a series of satirical cartoons in one of the papers. Very popular. And someone got the bright idea to model the design for the Mute on him._

The Rum Tum Tugger narrowed his eyes. _And to make **you** play him_, he signed back indignantly.

Mistoffelees shrugged, and the bitter twist of his mouth softened a bit. _I wasn’t exactly telling anybody about that snippet of my personal history. Or any other. It made people feel safer, to be able to laugh at him. To turn him into a Mute._

The Rum Tum Tugger studied him, until Mistoffelees’ eyes dropped, and he made an irritable little huffing noise that sounded more like himself.

The Rum Tum Tugger grinned, and poked the bench next to Mistoffelees’ knee. “Bet he wasn’t as cute as you though.”

Mistoffelees giggled suddenly, a startled little burst of sound, then clapped his paw over his mouth and gave the Rum Tum Tugger a disbelieving look.

The Rum Tum Tugger leaned closer, elbows on the bed and chin on his hands. “What about you?” he asked. “Did it make you feel safer? Did it let you laugh?”

Mistoffelees stared at him, face suddenly wiped blank with shock. He opened his mouth once, then closed it again.

Then, just as the Rum Tum Tugger was trying to calculate whether he had made a serious mistake, Mistoffelees sank his paws to the wrist into the Rum Tum Tugger’s mane, and dragged him into a ferocious hug.

“Oh,” said the Rum Tum Tugger intelligently, and folded him in a warm cloud of muscle and fluff and longing.

Mistoffelees’ face burrowed in below his chin, breath gathering damp and hot in the fur over the Rum Tum Tugger’s throat. His ribs rose and fell quickly under the Rum Tum Tugger’s paws; and the Rum Tum Tugger slipped them around him to bury them in the stiff, silky furs over his spine, and pressed his mouth and nose in against his ear, and trembled just a little.

Mistoffelees was signing something against his back, muffled and deniable. Most of it was incomprehensible, but the Rum Tum Tugger thought it might be something like… _why is it still so easy to fall into you, so easy with you not to need words. After all this time._

He didn’t really understand what he’d done, and what his words had meant. Perhaps Mistoffelees, like him, had been practising conversations over and over in his head, for years.

Time. _Just one night_. But that had been a lie from the start, hadn’t it? It could never be just one night when it already carried all the weight of all the nights before; and when all the scents of theatre and childhood and hope and disillusionment and thyme in the grass in summer lingered in the fur behind Mistoffelees’ ear.

Mistoffelees pushed him back, only far enough to stare at him, nose to nose, breath coming quick and pupils wide and round, claws bunched in the Rum Tum Tugger’s mane.

 _How dare you_ , he mouthed; but there was wonder and irony in his eyes as well as arousal, and the Rum Tum Tugger winked at him, and laughed, quite helpless, and growled: “How dare I? How dare I what, _beloved_?”

Mistoffelees jabbed a paw against his nose.

 _Shut up_ , he mouthed, and kissed him.

It was probably meant to be ferocious, but Mistoffelees was almost giggling, and fighting for breath as well, and his mouth was curving and his paws were shaking, and the Rum Tum Tugger pushed him back against the mirror so he was framed by light bulbs, and he grinned wildly at him from an inch away, and he purred:

“Sorry: how dare I what, oh great and mighty stage magician? Be so ruggedly handsome?”

Mistoffelees blinked at him, eyes hot and desperate and laughing and exasperated, and dragged him in to kiss him again. The Rum Tum Tugger pressed in hungrily against him, the backs of his paws bruising against cold glass and the pads dragging the soft warmth of his vest into messy bunches.

“Seduce you so magnificently?” the Rum Tum Tugger continued breathlessly, snatching the breath against the side of his face. “Nibble your ear?”

Mistoffelees’ breath stuttered across the Rum Tum Tugger’s whiskers, and he turned his head, nuzzling his ear demandingly up against his mouth.

“Know exactly how you like to be touched?” the Rum Tum Tugger added smugly, and obliged him, opening his teeth against the delicate hinge at the base of his ear, combing them through the fur there.

The groan Mistoffelees let out was its own reward as it vibrated against his lips. The sudden wave of fresh arousal on his scent was just a bonus, and the Rum Tum Tugger slid his paws down, and down, and dragged him forward until Mistoffelees’ legs were clamped tight around his waist.

The Rum Tum Tugger nibbled at his ear, almost sharply, as Mistoffelees arched his back and rubbed himself hot and shameless against the fur of his belly.

“How dare I love the prickle and the sparkling of your fur under my paws,” and his paws slipped forward again, under the fabric this time, rucking up the skirt of the vest over firm and shaking thighs, slipping down and behind to dig into softer flesh.

“How dare I think you look absolutely magnificent in that vest and even better out of it?” the Rum Tum Tugger panted, pulling back to look at him, almost forgetting what the question had been. “Oh! How dare I… turn up here?” he teased, nuzzling against the side of Mistoffelees’ neck.

Mistoffelees growled in confirmation, paws busy unfastening the Rum Tum Tugger’s cape, tongue dragging hotly over the thinner fur below his chin.

“Find my way unerringly to you like the salmon to the ocean, like the bee to the hive, like the kid to the drum kit when you’re trying to sleep in on a Sund—? Ow!” He jerked his head back as Mistoffelees nipped him, then looked at him: mussed and bright-eyed and hungry and hot and _open_ , open to him, and beloved.

“Kiss your nose?” the Rum Tum Tugger purred, feeling the shake in his own voice as he did it. “See through your bullshit? Love you? Remember you? _Remember_ you?”

 _Yes,_ Mistoffelees mouthed against his chin, shaking under his touch. _Yes. All of that_. _Please stop talking_.

The Rum Tum Tugger pulled him in a little closer, fingers digging into the meaty muscles under his thighs. “You know I can’t,” he murmured, and he kissed him; and no matter how he tried, kiss after kiss turned out passionate and tender, not sensual.

There was longing and fire in Mistoffelees’ touches; but after a minute or ten he pulled back, putting his paw on the Rum Tum Tugger’s mouth.

 _I can’t_ , he mouthed; and the Rum Tum Tugger went cold, and dropped his paws to the bench on either side of Mistoffelees’ hips.

Mistoffelees huffed at the expression on his face and shook his head, pressing in for another kiss. He shook his head, in a way that meant _No, silly, not like that_. Then he dropped his head back, frustrated, thumping it against the glass of the mirror as he tried to find the words.

The Rum Tum Tugger winced, and lifted one hand to brush it through the fur on the side and back of Mistoffelees’ head.

 _Exhausted_ , Mistoffelees signed, gestures quick and tight, chest still heaving for breath and scent heavy with desire, _and always horny and excited after a show, and haven’t touched anybody properly for too long, and I’m_ embarrassed _to have you seeing me here, and I want_ —

He bit his lip, turning his head away a little, but his eyes were still fixed on the Rum Tum Tugger’s.

“Anything,” the Rum Tum Tugger promised, too roughly. “Anything you want.”

 _I want_ , Mistoffelees signed. _You. But no promises. No… big words_.

The Rum Tum Tugger ducked his head. “I know, beautiful,” he mumbled. “Sorry. Just one night. I got it.”

Mistoffelees wriggled a bit closer, nudging up under the Rum Tum Tugger’s chin and nipping at his throat. “But,” he said, mostly a whisper with snatches of sound in it as his voice came and went, “we’re both hot. And horny. So it’s only logical we should…”

“Right,” the Rum Tum Tugger agreed, heart swelling. “Only logical.”

Then he pulled back and grinned at him, slipping his tongue between his teeth. “You know what would let you work off some of that performance energy?”

Mistoffelees arched one eyebrow at him, trying to look supercilious but with relief and delight tugging at the corner of his mouth. The Rum Tum Tugger reached out to tickle his ribs. “Who says you’re the one who gets to be fucked?” he purred.

The half-formed grin slipped off Mistoffelees’ face, and he slapped the Rum Tum Tugger’s hand away. And, oh, _that_ had always been an absolutely delicious look on Mistoffelees’ face—the heat, the sudden intent—but now, there was real command in it.

 _On the bed_ , he ordered. _Clothes off_.

The Rum Tum Tugger backed away, swaying his hips, eyes locked on Mistoffelees’ face, trying to look sultry instead of like an eager puppy.

Mistoffelees slid sideways, stretching out on the bench, reaching for a drawer.

 _Please tell me you keep actual lube in here and you’re not just going to use coconut oil or something,_ Tugger said, trying to do a sexy voice with his hands. Then he tripped backward onto the divan, and Mistoffelees collapsed sideways onto the bench in silent giggles.

The Rum Tum Tugger pouted, utterly charmed, and curled up on the divan. Mistoffelees pulled _proper_ lube out of the drawer, and sat up, spreading his legs with one hind paw up on the bench and the other casually hooking over the back of a chair.

 _But you’re not allowed to come_ , he signed. _And keep your dick in its sheath. I want you wet and hard enough to fuck me, once I’m done with you._

The Rum Tum Tugger groaned and stretched out to his full length as he watched: the gleam of lube on the pads of Mistoffelees’ paw, the luxurious stretch of his legs and arch of his back, the flushed nipples as he trailed his paw down toward the swollen black-furred sheath (just a _little_ pink tip peeking out), and down and back to circle his opening.

The Rum Tum Tugger rolled onto his stomach, wriggling his hips against the bed, flicking his tail and flagging it sideways to expose himself, making Mistoffelees’ eyes catch on the gleaming fur. Mistoffelees half opened his mouth, scenting the air. Then he grabbed for a makeup brush and poured lube all over the handle, tossing the bottle to the Rum Tum Tugger with a nod to him to use it.

The Rum Tum Tugger groaned and stretched, claws digging into the divan and arse rising high in the air. “What, you’re not going to do it for me?” he complained, reaching for the bottle.

Mistoffelees narrowed his eyes at him then arched his head back, mouth going slack as he worked the handle into himself. He’d never liked using paw pads to open himself up, the Rum Tum Tugger remembered: couldn’t get deep enough, or ever quite get the knack of keeping his claws out of the way.

The Rum Tum Tugger didn’t mind the slight catch of a claw here and there.

 _If I do it for you_ , said Mistoffelees, clenching down around the brush and keeping it there to free up his hands like the little show-off he’d always been, _you’ll finish far too soon_.

The Rum Tum Tugger fumbled the lube. Mistoffelees smirked.

“I _will_ tickle you,” the Rum Tum Tugger threatened pointlessly, and rolled onto his back and closed his eyes to concentrate on his own hands and arse and body for a moment, without being distracted by _laser pointers_.

He felt the slip of the lube between his paws, and he used too much of it: it got into his fur and between his pads, but what did that matter? The dull rake of his own claws up the inside of one thigh, then the soft damp touch of his pad just behind his balls, slipping back and down to massage and tug at the rim.

From across the room he heard, or felt, the change in Mistoffelees’ breathing; and he knew he was being watched, and that Mistoffelees was approaching him, as silently as he could.

He felt the quick rise and fall of his own stomach against his wrist, and he cocked his hips, relishing that first blunt press of his pad almost _almost_ inside, fat and round. He let up—switched pads—scooped more of the lube over his hole and pressed again, setting up a rhythm against the slow rolling of his hips, working it deeper and deeper inside, tugging the rim this way and that; as his other paw travelled back up his body, kneading over each nipple as it passed, dragging claws through fur, until it reached his mane and wound itself into the fur and _tugged_.

Somewhere near his hip, Mistoffelees made a desperate sort of noise. Then his weight leaned on the divan.

“Enough?” Mistoffelees pleaded in a whisper.

The Rum Tum Tugger opened his eyes; and at the look on Mistoffelees’ face he had to swallow again all the words he _wished_ he could have said again and again over the past eight years.

He reached for a tissue instead and wiped his paws clean, grinning at him with definitely no awe or blushing.

“Just waiting for you to join in. How do you want me, o great and marvellous Mr Quaxo?”

Mistoffelees pulled a face at him and reached out one paw, hovering over the Rum Tum Tugger’s ribs, wavering up toward the dappled bronze over his breastbone. The warmth of it was almost palpable, but his eyes were half veiled, and the Rum Tum Tugger couldn’t quite see what he wanted.

It felt dangerous, on the verge of _something_ not quite confessed; so the Rum Tum Tugger reached up and took his paw, and guided it gently downward to his thigh.

“On my belly?” he suggested; and Mistoffelees hesitated for a moment, then nodded.

The Rum Tum Tugger beamed at him, broad and smug, then flipped over and wriggled comfortably against the cushions. “Any time you’re ready, maestro.”

Mistoffelees huffed a little giggle, and tickled him. The Rum Tum Tugger yelped and squirmed, then spread his legs blatantly until he had one hind paw on the floor on either side of the divan, arching his back. Mistoffelees pounced up onto the bed and pawed against the back of his thigh, batting his tail to the side and out of the way.

The Rum Tum Tugger caught the giggles, breathless, as a pair of paws landed on his lower back and kneaded for a moment. Then Mistoffelees’ lithe weight settled all the way up his spine, and the long fur between his shoulder-blades was mussed by a fierce, playful little nuzzle.

He was still giggling, or perhaps they both were, when Mistoffelees pushed inside.

Heat, and pressure, and the quick panting of Mistoffelees’ breath and heart stirring his mane, fluttering against his back, throbbing inside him.

The Rum Tum Tugger deliberately drove all sentimentality out of his mind, and rocked up sensuously into the shove of Mistoffelees’ hips, and yowled low.

“There’s still crew about, you know,” Mistoffelees panted into his mane, and the Rum Tum Tugger laughed helplessly, and gasped, and worked his paws against the upholstery. And he did his best not to spill out words of adoration and worship as Mistoffelees gathered himself and set up a quick, intoxicating rhythm, the sure and subtle power of his dancer’s hips.

The Rum Tum Tugger flexed his shoulders back against his weight and moaned, grabbing at his own tail and tugging it around to bite into the tip.

“Ssh,” hissed Mistoffelees roughly. His paws were kneading in the Rum Tum Tugger’s mane, claws snagging, tongue dragging distractedly up one tuft of fur then another, erratic little ripples of sensation that swirled bewilderingly in the Rum Tum Tugger’s gut.

“That all you’ve got?” the Rum Tum Tugger teased.

Mistoffelees gasped his laughter, remembering, _remembering_.

And Mistoffelees’ thrusts became shorter, fiercer, wilder, as the heady ferocious scent rose around them, and the Rum Tum Tugger scrabbled at the divan for purchase as he was shoved forward and had to arch his back and brace himself against the ground, against the force and yearning of Mistoffelees’ hidden anger. And he fought to obey, to keep his own dick in its sheath and his spines soft even while he rutted shamelessly against a cushion.

“Ssh,” Mistoffelees breathed again, but now it was soothing and pleading as he burrowed his face into the fur between the Rum Tum Tugger’s shoulder-blades, as he nibbled frantically at the half-length fur of his undercoat, teeth snagging and tugging and disrupting and tidying. So many actions—so many thoughts.

So many years, and so many selves.

The Rum Tum Tugger half-sobbed, burying it in the cushion, and did cruel and unnecessary things to the upholstery of the divan with his claws; and Mistoffelees’ thrusts got rougher as he came, but his touches trailed off into something too sweet, snuffles at his ear and kisses that were just long breaths, and wonder, and reverence.

They were still for a moment, Mistoffelees’ face buried in the Rum Tum Tugger’s mane, just breathing. The Rum Tum Tugger lay under him, caught between thrilling satisfaction and desperation with every tickle of breath through his fur.

“I,” whispered Mistoffelees, barely a breath through lips and teeth and mouth; “… spines? Yes? No?”

The thrill ran deep through the Rum Tum Tugger’s gut, and he shivered, and he squeezed tight around him. “Not,” he purred, “if you still want me to be able to fuck you afterward.”

Mistoffelees’ breath fell out in a messy rush. His touch slipped down from the Rum Tum Tugger’s mane to rest on top of his paws, kneading at them rhythmically, coaxing them into the same pattern as he tried to gather his self-control and flatten his spines to pull out.

The Rum Tum Tugger grinned at nothing, and rubbed his cheek shamelessly against the divan. He was well past caring about hiding himself, if there was every anything of him that could be hidden.

“You’re beautiful,” he purred, nonsensically. “Your eyes are ridiculous. Who gave them permission to be all blue like that? Blue shouldn’t even be sexy. This room smells all wrong for you. I want you in my bed, back at home with all the scents of the colony. That’s where you smell best. Do you realise how amazing you look, those sparks and flickers in your coat, the gleam of your fur and your eyes and your devilry while everybody around you is moving and thinking at half the speed? How dare you just climb me like that. That was awesome. That was completely unfair. Far too sexy. Obviously you haven’t forgotten how to fuck. Wow. I’m going to—”

Mistoffelees bit his ear, and pulled out abruptly.

The Rum Tum Tugger yelped, and batted at him, but there wasn’t the thrilling burn of spines. It was just the satisfaction, and the aching emptiness, and the impatience at something still to be done.

He rolled onto his back, stretching luxuriously, shimmying his hips a little to revel in the feel of it.

Mistoffelees flopped down beside him.

The Rum Tum Tugger’s head fell sideways, lidded eyes finding and fixing on him. Mistoffelees was grinning wide and vacant, his paws batting and kneading at empty air, giggling like a child.

The Rum Tum Tugger purred at him, low and full, and squirmed over to put a wide warm paw on Mistoffelees’ ribs, just where black fur met white.

Mistoffelees’ eyes met his, half-open and relaxed with pupils blown out to circles.

The Rum Tum Tugger lowered his head, still purring, and began to lick at the fur of his belly, long hungry drags of the tongue, cleaning him up and scraping and curling around his nipples.

Mistoffelees gasped, legs spreading wide and stomach jumping against the Rum Tum Tugger’s mouth, hind paws scuffling and sliding on the bed as he scrabbled to brace himself.

The Rum Tum Tugger rumbled approval and shifted, lifting himself up on one forepaw and hovering over Mistoffelees’ body, sliding between his legs.

“Still want me, sparkles?”

The answering nod and moan were a little too fast, no exceptions or conditions. The Rum Tum Tugger gallantly didn’t read too much into it but blanketed Mistoffelees with his body, nuzzling at his chest and throat and cheek, kneading at the cushions under his shoulders as Mistoffelees’ powerful legs locked around his waist.

“Anyone would think you hadn’t been fucked properly in eight and a half years,” the Rum Tum Tugger teased, nibbling the words into his throat as he worked his hips snugly into position.

“Almost eight and a half days,” Mistoffelees hissed, because he’d always been a brat, and the Rum Tum Tugger laughed a quick short exhale against his neck and shifted himself, remembering just the right angle and depth for Mistoffelees’ body like it was yesterday.

His relief came out as a groan as he finally let his cock slip out of its aching sheath, swollen and wet with long arousal; but the relief was just a moment, before he was pressing into the strong delicious heat of Mistoffelees.

Mistoffelees hadn’t bothered to slick himself up much, but he didn’t need to: he knew that the Rum Tum Tugger always got _very_ wet, especially for him.

The Rum Tum Tugger scrabbled at the bed, worrying at a scrap of fur caught between his teeth, trying to ground himself and drive himself as he pressed down and in, working his way bit by delirious bit into the willing body below him. Mistoffelees said nothing but his breath turned into broken sounds and rasps, paws burying deep in the Rum Tum Tugger’s mane, sliding down over the muscles of his sides and back up again, brushing the fur all contrary-wise.

He was there, sunken deep, drunk, lost and entirely lost. The world was flames and joy and angry hope around him, and Mistoffelees’ dusty sweet scent filled his mouth, and…

“Are you alright?” came Mistoffelees’ voice, soft but clear. “Too much?”

Paws dragged through the fur over his shoulders and down to rub at his ribs and hips: soothing, not stirring.

“Breathe,” Mistoffelees purred in his ear. “Sweetheart. Breathe with me.”

And they breathed together, like they’d always used to do, when one or the other of them had gone too far, and didn’t know how to find himself again.

Mistoffelees mouthed something against the side of his face, or maybe it was only a nuzzle, but it meant the same thing, in the end.

The Rum Tum Tugger cupped his chin in one paw and kissed him, kissed him hard, pushing down into him and feeling the tremble as Mistoffelees’ sticky wet sheath rode up against the velvet of his belly.

And the Rum Tum Tugger _tried_ to keep it to ‘just (really awesome) sex’. He honestly did. But as it turned out, it was awfully difficult to be all wrapped up in somebody and snickering breathlessly into each other’s fur and nuzzling up against a well-remembered scent without getting all sentimental about it.

Especially when Mistoffelees giggled like that.

“Say my name?” he pleaded breathlessly; and Mistoffelees mouthed it, then signed it; and once he’d started, he couldn’t seem to stop, biting every syllable of it into the Rum Tum Tugger’s throat, breathing it against his ear, moaning it into his mouth, flinging his head back against the cushion with the words caught between his teeth as he rode out the Rum Tum Tugger’s climax with him.

***

“I’m waiting,” said Mistoffelees, after a while.

The Rum Tum Tugger opened one eye and looked at him: sprawled across the bed, one paw draped across his eyes.

“I can tell,” he said. “It’s very Quaxo. Waiting for what?”

Mistoffelees was quiet for a moment. Then he said, in a voice that tried to sneer but came out oddly muted, “Anger.”

The Rum Tum Tugger considered this for a moment. Then he cocked his head, and smirked, and nuzzled against Mistoffelees’ belly.

“Oh honey,” he purred. “You weren’t as bad as all _that_.”

The fur rose and fell in quick little huffs under his mouth.

“You _know_ I can still set your tail on fire,” Mistoffelees observed.

“You just did,” the Rum Tum Tugger pointed out, and got his ears boxed. “Ow. C’mon, a tail is _always_ a euphemism.”

“Then think your innuendos through,” Mistoffelees grumbled at him. “If I set your ‘tail’ on fire that means I _gave you an STI_ , you dick.”

The Rum Tum Tugger squinted at him. “Sore point? Wild oats sown and regretted?”

Mistoffelees sat up, and threw the pillow at his face.

“It isn’t the sex that’s the problem,” he hissed.

The Rum Tum Tugger blinked dumbly at him, until Mistoffelees huffed and turned his back.

The fur of his spine was soft under the Rum Tum Tugger’s fingers, when he reached out.

“See, I actually don’t get it,” he said, and nuzzled his mane against Mistoffelees’ shoulders. “I mean. Apart from the Macavity thing. But everyone’s over that long ago. Really. What _would_ I be angry about?” Then he poked him. “What are _you_ angry about?”

Mistoffelees flinched away.

“You’re _here_ ,” he hissed. “You were never meant to see me like this.”

“Like what?”

Mistoffelees shot him a look, almost amused in its disbelief.

The Rum Tum Tugger blinked at him, and plopped his head onto Mistoffelees’ thigh.

“You _saw_ that album,” said Mistoffelees, explaining nothing at all.

“The Macavity thing?”

Mistoffelees narrowed his eyes. “For starters.”

The Rum Tum Tugger smirked. “Aw, the _me_ thing? But that was adorable.”

Mistoffelees glared at him. The Rum Tum Tugger shut up very quickly.

“The _Mute_ thing,” said Mistoffelees, deliberately and clearly, and he gestured to his throat. “Pantomime. Me, Tugger. A… a _parody_. A cute stupid voiceless cartoon… _joke_. A child’s toy of…”

His voice closed up with an audible clicking, and he looked away.

The Rum Tum Tugger stared, uncomprehending and horrified and fascinated.

… _Laugh at_ , Mistoffelees signed; then, _dressing me up as him. Or anything. Any stupid joke. It’s only been the last two years I’ve really been able to talk to the rest of the cast. Mute on and off the stage. And they treat me like it. Cute. Mascot. Not friend._

“Bullshit,” said the Rum Tum Tugger; and Mistoffelees stared down at him with an expression that might have been angry, if it hadn’t been so confused and curious.

The Rum Tum Tugger gestured vaguely in the direction of the discarded album, and also the dressing table, and all the photos stuck around the mirror. “You’ve got friends. Some people think you’re awesome. And also, _what_? Sparklebutt. Seriously. You think they make you small? You have no damned idea what I saw on that stage, do you?”

“That’s on the _stage_ ,” he growled. “That doesn’t _count_.”

“I saw,” said the Rum Tum Tugger smugly, “a delicious shiny super-talented angel absolutely smashing it. I saw a cat who came from somewhere hard and flipped it the bird and made it his own. I saw someone dancing all over the hidebound dickheads of his art form and turning it into something better, and _after that_ I realised it was you. _Prove me wrong_ ,” he added, as Mistoffelees opened his mouth to argue.

Mistoffelees shut his mouth. Then he opened it again.

“You can’t just _decide I’m wrong_.”

“Can so.”

“You’re telling me. Seriously. _You_. You’re not listening. I’m telling you all this bullshit I’ve been living with for years and you…?”

“And I’m telling you screw them, you’re awesome. You should be proud of who you are and what you can do. A Cat should be proud!”

Mistoffelees gaped indignantly at him. Then he glared, and little irritable sparks leaped off his fur.

“ _Oh_ ,” said the Rum Tum Tugger with delight. “I just worked out why your costume looks so awesome. You do something like that to it, right?”

“Are you going to tell Munkustrap?” Mistoffelees demanded. “About tonight. That I’m here.”

The Rum Tum Tugger sat up slowly.

“Am I not meant to?” He stared at Mistoffelees’ hot blue eyes, which kept cutting and ducking away from his gaze. “Because. I don’t think I can do that. I mean. On principle, but also. I am _not_ going to be able to shut up about this. And anyway, Jellylorum saw you too. Did you mean it to be a secret?”

Mistoffelees’ paws flipped in front of him, a mess of the little sign which was the Rum Tum Tugger’s name. _Can you imagine_ , he said. _Can you really imagine—if your brother heard who you’d been seeing—who you’d been_ doing _tonight_ —”

He broke off, face twisting in disgust.

“My brother…?” said the Rum Tum Tugger slowly. “You think he’d…”

Mistoffelees lifted his head and stared back at him defiantly.

Something hot and sick flared up inside the Rum Tum Tugger. He leaned forward, and closed his paws on Mistoffelees’ knees.

“Mistoffelees. He searched for you. He—we hunted, Mistoffelees. After Macavity was executed. _Desperately_. Months, and we tried—he—you have no idea what he put himself through, okay?”

Mistoffelees stared into his eyes for a long moment. The Rum Tum Tugger wasn’t sure how he’d gotten so close. Then one of them blinked or the other did, and the moment dissipated.

“For a moment there,” said Mistoffelees calmly, “you _did_ look angry.”

“He loves you,” said the Rum Tum Tugger. “You know how he loves you. You did know.”

“I know he—had hopes for me,” said Mistoffelees. “Which I disappointed.”

“Okay, first of all? We _know_ it was you who leaked all that evidence to the investigation, okay? And who set him up for his fall. And _if it hadn’t been_ ,” he said, riding over the wordless panic suddenly freezing Mistoffelees’ face, “if you had only managed to _survive_ and not to fight back, you think we’d not want you even then? Why didn’t you come back, belov—Quaxo? It took _a week_ for Mungojerrie and Rumpelteazer to settle back at home. Why would we do worse by you? Why are you looking at me like that?”

Mistoffelees blinked slowly. Then he wetted his lips, and dropped his eyes, and lifted them again.

 _They’re safe_? he signed. _You’ve seen them since_?

“ _Seen_ them?” the Rum Tum Tugger echoed dumbly. “She broke into my kitchen yesterday morning and stole my last highlighters. And wrote all over my bathroom mirror with them. I sucked Jerrie’s dick last week then stole ten dollars out of his wallet for a pizza because he fell asleep on me. Actually, that might be why—what, you haven’t heard from them since? I mean, I know they haven’t heard from you, but—”

Mistoffelees was staring at him blankly.

The Rum Tum Tugger dived for his phone.

“Look,” he said, and opened it to his text thread with Mungojerrie.

The most recent message was from half an hour ago. Mungojerrie had sent him a photo of a frog with what looked like a bad case of acne. He’d written, _saw this and thought of you :P_

With his face very still, Mistoffelees reached for the phone, and scrolled up.

The whole conversation for the last eight days was [exactly the same sentence, swapped back and forth between them and attached to photos of ugly and weird things](https://a-terrible-muddle.tumblr.com/post/632342866724896768/battle-of-the-himbos).

“He’s… alive,” said Mistoffelees slowly. “And sending you photos of… ugly mushrooms.”

“ _Deformed_ mushrooms,” said the Rum Tum Tugger. “See, look that one there. That was the first one. I’m in his contacts list as Deformed Mushroom.”

“I think that’s what that mushroom is supposed to look like,” said Mistoffelees, on reflection. “Was this right after you hooked up?”

“ _Quaxo_ ,” purred the Rum Tum Tugger, “ _nothing_ is supposed to look like that. And yes. Because my dick is just that awesome.”

Mistoffelees swiped at him without looking. “Don’t call me that.”

The Rum Tum Tugger smirked. “Yes dear.”

Mistoffelees closed the text conversation and stared at the screen. Just below Mungojerrie’s name was another.

He took a deep breath, glanced sideways at the Rum Tum Tugger, and thumbed open that conversation.

_RTT: aw yea talk dramatic to me baby_

_Munkustrap: WOULD IT KILL YOU to stop by the organic grocers this afternoon and NOT dip everything in barbecue sauce to give it ‘flavour’_

_RTT: u forgot the full stop_

_Munkustrap: I’m disowning you._

_RTT: fine but only because I love and respect Demeter and her weird taste buds_

_RTT: not alonzo. zero respect for alonzo’s taste buds._

_Munkustrap: and be polite to Gus tonight. Remember you’re his guest._

_RTT: im holding ur groceries hostage_

“Demeter finally joined them,” Mistoffelees observed, in a distant voice.

“Yup. Jemima has three parents, Munkustrap occasionally sleeps more than four hours a night, Alonzo gets to scowl at me all he likes, everyone’s happy.”

“Did you give them their groceries?”

“Even Demeter’s kale chips.”

“Those are actually really good.”

“Traitor.”

Mistoffelees chewed at his lip, still staring at Munkustrap’s words on the screen. His eyes were wide and his ears half laid back. The Rum Tum Tugger could feel the tip of his tail flicking back and forth against his leg.

He reached out gently and took the phone from Mistoffelees. Slowly, so that he could object if he wanted to, he switched it from the text conversation to the phone call screen.

Mistoffelees said nothing. The Rum Tum Tugger looked at him for a moment. Then he pressed the call button, and put the phone on speaker, and dropped it on the bed.

Mistoffelees’ eyes dilated as they listened to it ring. Every muscle was tense against the Rum Tum Tugger’s side.

The ringing broke off.

“What did you do,” came Munkustrap’s voice, tired and fond.

“I’m hurt,” purred the Rum Tum Tugger, watching Mistoffelees, who suddenly had a paw clamped over his mouth. “Don’t you mean _who_ did I do?”

“Whom,” corrected Munkustrap drily. “Did you ditch Jellylorum and Gus for an after-show hook-up? I told you to behave.”

“Oops?” said the Rum Tum Tugger innocently.

Mistoffelees bit down on his paw, letting out a deep shuddering breath through his nose. It hitched in his throat on the next inhale, halfway to a sob. The Rum Tum Tugger put a paw between his shoulder blades and stroked through the rich, soft fur.

“… you said something idiotic and got thrown out,” Munkustrap guessed with a sigh. “And you need me to come and pick you up. I was just about to go to bed.”

“Oh, I haven’t been thrown out,” the Rum Tum Tugger said, with half a leer.

Munkustrap’s silence was very pointed.

Mistoffelees giggled faintly behind his paw.

“… _Rum Tum Tugger_ ,” said his brother in a low growl. “You don’t mean to say you’re calling me while they’re still there?”

“Oh, he’s still here. He wanted to know if you got your groceries.”

“ _Why_ are you ringing?” Munkustrap hissed. “And who is he, then?”

The Rum Tum Tugger lifted a questioning eyebrow at Mistoffelees, whose eyes were shining and watery and terrified. He waited a moment, but Mistoffelees didn’t look at him, or say anything, or give any clear sign.

“Oh, only the star of the show,” the Rum Tum Tugger said after a moment. “Because I’m just that sexy. I—”

“Hello Munkustrap,” Mistoffelees blurted out.

His voice overlapped with the Rum Tum Tugger’s, and it croaked a little, and the Rum Tum Tugger could feel the hitch and confusion in Munkustrap’s breath even before he said, quite deliberately, “Could you… say that again?”

“He said ‘hello’,” said the Rum Tum Tugger helpfully. “Remember, that word’s fancier than ‘hi’ and not as fancy as ‘salutations’?” And Mistoffelees rolled his eyes, and tapped the option to initiate a video call.

The Rum Tum Tugger stared at him in surprise. Mistoffelees shrugged faintly, and took a breath. In the moment while the video request was pending, the Rum Tum Tugger saw him become Quaxo again—something about the angle of the ears, and the droop of the eyelids, and the twist of the mouth. But this was a subtler Quaxo, without his sharp edges: something like Mistoffelees too.

After a moment’s pause, Munkustrap accepted.

He was sitting his desk with a blanket around his shoulders and his mane in sleepy disarray, with the week’s accounts in front of him. His eyes were startled and wary all at once; but as they fixed on Quaxo, pressed up against the Rum Tum Tugger’s side, they went wider: stunned and suddenly very young somehow, as his claws dug into the wood of the desk.

“I found him,” the Rum Tum Tugger put in, to cover the silence as they stared at each other. “He’s been touring with the pantomime. Making a name for himself. Different name, obviously, but you know what I mean, he’s _amazing_ , Munkustrap, you should see him, you need to come and watch, you’ll be so proud of him. You should see the way he—”

“You’re alright?” Munkustrap asked in a hoarse voice.

Quaxo nodded, one quick little jerk of the head. “You? All of you?”

“You could have asked me that,” the Rum Tum Tugger pointed out.

“We were busy,” said Quaxo. “ _You_ were busy. Prying.”

“Of course _we’re_ alright,” said Munkustrap, and then he was in motion, flinging aside his blanket and reaching for his coat and boots. “Mistoffelees, I’m so sorry, I should never have stopped looking. Where are you? I’ll come and find you.”

The Rum Tum Tugger buried his face in his hands, laughing and maybe a little bit tearful, as Quaxo calmed his old mentor down and persuaded him not to rush out the door to come and find them. Alonzo’s voice drifted in from the next room, sharp and interrogative, and Munkustrap turned instinctively toward the voice.

“Not tonight,” said Mistoffelees, ears flattening for a moment; then Quaxo, gentler and more persuasive, “not tonight, Munkustrap. Tomorrow’s a two-show day.”

Munkustrap paused, irresolute, looking at the little screen of his phone; and the Rum Tum Tugger put a paw on Quaxo’s back, and kissed his shoulder, and looked up at his brother, smiling helplessly.

“… it’s alright,” said Munkustrap, turning his head to address Alonzo offscreen. “Yes. I’m alright. I’ll explain in a minute.

Alonzo hesitated, then said something in a low, protective rumble, and closed the door.

Munkustrap sank down on the desk, and stared at them. There were tears in his eyes, but he was smiling.

 _Can I see you tomorrow?_ he signed, a little stiffly.

Mistoffelees smiled suddenly, wide and bright. “Brunch?” he said. “Matinee’s at two so lunch would be too late. And I’m definitely sleeping late in the morning.” But at the same time, he was signing, _I’m sorry. I’m so sorry_.

Munkustrap nodded fiercely, signing, _Proud of you. So proud of you_. “Are you alright? Is there anything you need? You’re safe, they’re treating you well?”

“ _Munkustrap_.” He almost giggled, pawing at one ear in a familiar old gesture. “I’m not a prisoner.”

“Alright. And you’re eating enough? You look well, Mistoffelees. You—”

“Hey,” said the Rum Tum Tugger. “Save it for _brunch_ , you hippy weirdos. You both need to sleep.”

“Brunch isn’t—” began Munkustrap, then shook his head, wiping at his eyes. “You’re right. I should—this isn’t a secret, is it? Demeter and Alonzo will ask. And Jemima’s still up, I think.”

Mistoffelees hesitated. Then he shook his head. “Jellylorum already knows. I suppose I’ll have to face the music.”

“ _Dance_ to it with me,” the Rum Tum Tugger purred; and Munkustrap smiled at them, warm and joyful, and hung up the call.

Mistoffelees immediately flopped onto his face and took a few deep, shuddering breaths.

“Yeah,” the Rum Tum Tugger agreed helplessly, and sat up beside him, tipping his head back against the wall. His tail flicked against Mistoffelees’ side, agitated.

They were quiet for a minute.

The Rum Tum Tugger reached out one leg, and put his foot down beside Mistoffelees’ paw.

Mistoffelees closed the gap, without looking: covered it with his paw, and squeezed.

“You okay?” Mistoffelees asked after a moment, muffled into the cushion.

“Yeah,” said the Rum Tum Tugger; and they just stayed there, matching their breathing again through that one point of contact.

He could feel the faint pressure in his chest that had used to come before a panic attack; but he didn’t think it would go any further. It didn’t usually, these days. And tonight, he had it under control.

His phone dinged. Then again.

… Then, again.

 _Alonzo: I stole Alonzo’s phone. You’re welcome. He’s shouting a lot. – J_ _🌼_

 _Alonzo: now you owe me details_ _😮😮😮😮😮_

_Alonzo: if you don’t answer me in one minute I’m going to tell the twins and everybody!!_

The Rum Tum Tugger kicked fretfully at his phone. “Okay. I’m turning the phone off before everyone piles in.”

Mistoffelees started giggling. Then he dived for the phone, and they wrestled for a moment.

“You can’t let her win,” Mistoffelees told him firmly, holding it not-really-at-all out of the Rum Tum Tugger’s reach.

The Rum Tum Tugger flopped onto his back and lay there, panting, watching him type.

“I love you,” he said, conversationally. “I missed you.”

“I know that,” said Mistoffelees, distractedly.

“Good,” said the Rum Tum Tugger. “You _do_ remember Star Wars, right? Macavity didn’t, like, erase all fun from your memory?”

“No,” said Mistoffelees, absolutely deadpan. “What’s a star war?”

The Rum Tum Tugger narrowed his eyes at him. “Brat,” he said, and rolled back onto his belly to read the message Mistoffelees had just sent to Mungojerrie.

_RTT: Mistoffelees says you’re a woolly-pated cloud-gathering addle-pated clod-hopping ninny._

“He does?” said the Rum Tum Tugger, with interest.

“That’s what I used to call him,” said Mistoffelees, a little distracted, watching the _Mungojerrie is typing_ notification at the bottom of the screen.

_Mungojerrie: fuck of Def mushroom you now I’ve got the early shift tinnitus_

_Mungojerrie: tomorrow_

Mistoffelees let out a heavy breath and flopped down onto his forelegs, laughing soundlessly with relief, letting the phone fall to the bed.

“You did?” said the Rum Tum Tugger, poking at his shoulder. “How long did it take you? I need to know. All those times I was trying to talk to you and you’d go silent for five whole minutes, was that because you were typing long words at Mungojerrie just to tell him he’s an idiot?”

“Some of us,” said Mistoffelees with dignity, “have more than one brain cell.”

_Mungojerrie: wait what_

_Mungojerrie is typing…_

The Rum Tum Tugger put his paw in the small of Mistoffelees’ back. The ribs were rising and falling quickly under his touch, but Mistoffelees’ eyes were sparkling with a return of that old mischief.

The Rum Tum Tugger nuzzled his cheek in against Mistoffelees’ shoulder, and made a long interrogative rumble of a noise.

 _Incoming call: Pouncival_.

Mistoffelees’s eyes went wide and soft at the notification. But he rejected the call and took a selfie: pouting with mocking sexiness, and with his tongue poking out at the camera, and with the traces of tears on his face, and a slice of the Rum Tum Tugger’s ruff all down one side of the shot.

“You look beautiful,” the Rum Tum Tugger said, and Mistoffelees batted at his paw and sent the photo to Mungojerrie, with the message, _saw this and thought of you :P_.

 _Now you can turn off your phone_ , he signed, dropping it on the bed.

“You’re evil,” said the Rum Tum Tugger, with deep admiration. “Also, you realise you basically just said you’re a deformed mushroom.”

“ _You’re_ a deformed mushroom,” said Mistoffelees, wittily.

“I know that, baby,” the Rum Tum Tugger crooned, and he kissed his temple. “Mungojerrie tells me every day.”

 _Incoming call: Jemima_.

 _Incoming call: Pouncival_.

The Rum Tum Tugger ignored them and switched back to the text conversation with Mungojerrie, who was apparently still typing.

 _Sorry, Mistoffelees stole my phone_ , the Rum Tum Tugger typed. His thumb hovered over ‘send’. Then he erased the name, and replaced it with _some tom_.

 _Some tom?_ Mistoffelees mouthed at him, and narrowed his eyes.

The Rum Tum Tugger replaced it with _my boyfriend_.

He glanced up at Mistoffelees. Mistoffelees lifted an eyebrow, and smirked.

 _You wish_ , he mouthed.

The Rum Tum Tugger winked at him, and sent the message.

_Incoming call: Electra._

_Rumpelteazer: I WILL LAUGHTER YOU BOTH!!!! I LOVE YOU YOU LITTLE TWIT GET YOUR ARSE BACK HERE OR I WILL STORM THAT THEATRE MYSELF?????_

_Incoming call: Mungojerrie._

_Incoming call: Jemima._

The Rum Tum Tugger turned off his phone, and tossed it on the floor.

“I think you’re going to have a fan crowd at tomorrow’s matinee,” he commented.

Mistoffelees stared at the phone on the floor.

“After brunch,” he said distantly. “With your brother.”

The Rum Tum Tugger put an arm across his back and nestled in closer, half covering him with warm fur and nuzzling at the side of his neck.

“He’d understand if it was too much, you know,” he said. Then he thought for a moment and added, rather smugly, “I’m going to have the worst anxiety attack tomorrow.”

Mistoffelees bit at his forepaw. “No you’re not,” he said. “I am.”

“Mm.” The Rum Tum Tugger nuzzled up behind his ear, then licked the fur there.

“I’m going to _lose my voice_ ,” Mistoffelees whined. “What if I screw up the matinee. And the evening show. What if I can never be Quaxo again.”

“Then your understudy will love me,” said the Rum Tum Tugger with delight, because he hadn’t seen Mistoffelees’ dramatic pouting for years. “And you won’t, anyway. Take a sick day if you have to. But you got this. I’ll come along and cheer embarrassingly loud from the front row.”

“Don’t _you_ have anything you’re meant to be doing tomorrow?”

“You should crash at my place. Or—where are you staying? I could come back with you. I’ll hold your hand during brunch. We could hyperventilate at each other,” he added helpfully. “See whose is worse.”

“That sounds like a really really not sensible idea,” said Mistoffelees.

“Yeah,” the Rum Tum Tugger agreed, and his heart sang with joy. “Wanna do it?”

“Yeah.”

The Rum Tum Tugger poked him, and snickered. “Just one night, Buttons?”

“Just one more.” Mistoffelees arched his back, and pressed his cheek up under the Rum Tum Tugger’s chin, nuzzling against his throat. “Like always.”

**Author's Note:**

> \- If you want to see the transcript of Mungojerrie and Tugger's 'deformed mushrooms' text conversation, see [this post on my Tugger RP blog](https://a-terrible-muddle.tumblr.com/post/632342866724896768/battle-of-the-himbos); and [here is a post](https://whitmerule.tumblr.com/post/190726295980/whitmerule-whitmerule-whitmerule) with gifs of / links to a few of the real pantomime performances of Dick Whittington that inspired the descriptions of Mistoffelees' previous performances (and this fic as a whole).
> 
> \- **Warnings** for the anthro-cat sexual anatomy: their fingers are shorter and broader than ours and there is mention of this making prep more difficult, especially when you factor in claws; they have sheaths and erectile penile spines, but the latter are not used in this fic.


End file.
